


A Better Fate Than Wisdom

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearly four hours pass between their first kiss and their second.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Better Fate Than Wisdom

The first time Sherlock kissed John, which was also the first time that he'd kissed anyone, his first thought was that he must have done it wrong. It looked so simple to master when observed from the outside, but he must have missed some vital element, because instead of relaxing into his arms and kissing him back, John made a shocked noise and stepped away, out from the embrace that Sherlock had manoeuvred him into.

“This isn't...I'm not...” John said disjointedly, stopped abruptly, blinked twice, then turned and left the flat.

Sherlock collapsed back on to the sofa with a frown, wondering if he should have done more research. However appalling the thought of it, perhaps he should have tried kissing someone else first, just to make sure he was doing it right.

Three hours later, Sherlock was still lying on his sofa when John texted him.

 _I thought you were married to your work?_

 _It's an open relationship,_ he replied. _Where are you?_

There was a long pause before his phone beeped again.

 _Not sure. I think I'm having a sexual identity crisis._

Ah, so it wasn't the kiss itself, it was the meaning behind it. Sherlock immediately felt better – he was an expert at finding meaning, after all.

 _You can do that here,_ he sent back. _Come home._

There was no reply, but half an hour later there was the scrape of a key in the front door, and Sherlock felt a smile cross his face even as his brain started working.

John had arrived in a taxi – he'd heard it pull up – but he hadn't left in one. His tread on the stairs was slow and with a slight hitch that said that John had forgotten that his limp was gone now. Sherlock was annoyed by that – he'd worked hard to get rid of the confounded thing and he wasn't putting up with it coming back. There was also the sound of a hand on the banister, helping to pull him up each step.

The deductions were easy. John had been walking, probably aimlessly if his text had been anything to go by, and then he'd given up and got a taxi home. He hadn't made any decisions or drawn any conclusions yet – if the reappearance of his limp hadn't told Sherlock that, then the speed he was climbing the stairs would have. He was putting off the inevitable moment when he'd have to see Sherlock again and produce some kind of reaction to the earlier events.

Sherlock stayed where he was, shutting his eyes and steepling his fingers as if he hadn't moved for hours. Which he hadn't, but John would need some obvious signs in order to work that out. The next five minutes were going to be crucial, and he'd have to do a lot better at reading John than he had before, or risk losing him forever. The thought sent a cold shudder through his stomach that he resolutely ignored.

John paused in the doorway for a long moment, and it took a considerable amount of Sherlock's willpower not to open his eyes so that he could observe what was written on his face.

“How's the crisis?” he asked instead and was rewarded with a weary half-laugh.

“You almost certainly already know,” said John. He finally crossed the threshold, walking across the room to his armchair and sinking down into it with a sigh. “In fact,” he continued, “you probably know more about the whole thing than I do. Care to enlighten me?”

“I suspect it's one of those things you have to work out for yourself,” said Sherlock. He'd been still quite young when Mycroft had taken him to one side at a family gathering and told him, quite firmly, that going around informing people that their assumptions about their sexuality were wrong was not good behaviour, and ultimately unhelpful to them anyway. _They have to see it for themselves,_ he'd said, _gather their own evidence._ Aunt Harriet never had spoken to them again, although Sherlock had heard that their cousin was living in Brighton with a man called Thomas now.

“Right,” said John with a sigh. He was silent for several long minutes and Sherlock had another fight to keep his eyes shut. _It's less intimidating to talk to a man who has his eyes closed,_ he reminded himself. _You want him to open up to you._

“What do you want from me?” John asked eventually in a hoarse whisper that gave away how little he wanted to ask, and how important the answer was to him.

That was a very dangerous question. “Isn't it a little unfair to ask me something that you couldn't answer about yourself?”

“I'm collecting data,” said John in a firmer voice. “Why did you kiss me?”

That was easier to answer, but Sherlock couldn't do it without watching John's reaction. He finally let his eyes open and fixed them on John's face, which was creased with a tiny frown that he instantly wanted to smooth away. The urge was slightly unnerving. “People only do things for two reasons,” he pointed out. “Because they want to, or because they're being coerced in some way. I definitely wasn't being coerced.”

John's frown deepened. “You're expecting me to think you did it just because you wanted to?” he asked. “Come on, you must have had a plan. You always have a plan.”

“I had a goal,” allowed Sherlock. “I'm lacking experience in this area, though,” it pained him a little to admit it, although it was surely obvious to everyone, “and I was unsure of the precise steps between the kiss and reaching the goal, but I was rather hoping you'd be able to help with that.”

“What was the goal?” said John intently, leaning forward.

Sherlock looked at his face for a long time before replying, taking in every familiar inch of it. “To have you in every way I could, for as long as I could,” he said, feeling as if the words were being ripped right out of his chest.

“Oh,” said John quietly, looking down to avoid Sherlock's eyes. He was silent for the longest time, staring at the carpet while Sherlock stared at him, unable to tear his eyes away. He couldn't stand it, any of it: the clock ticking in the background, the still, dead air between them in this flat they'd made more of a home in the short time they'd been there than he could ever remember having, the way John's face was half-hidden and completely unreadable for the first time since Sherlock had met him. He curled his hand into a fist, wanting to hit down at the sofa, take out some of the tension on something that he didn't mind hurting, and then John looked up.

“Right,” he said in a voice that was clearly calmer than his nerves. “Let's try it then. You kiss me again, and we'll work out the steps from there together.”

Sherlock found himself moving before the words had even fully penetrated his consciousness. John sat back in the chair as Sherlock bent over him with his hands clinging tightly to the arms.

“You're sure?” he asked, barely recognising his own voice. “Not going to run away again?”

John gave him a defiant look. “I'm a soldier,” he reminded him. “We don't run, we retreat in order to create a tactical advantage.”

Sherlock ignored him. “You're sure?” he insisted through gritted teeth.

“Completely,” said John, and Sherlock barely let him finish the word before kissing him. There was too much force and teeth, but then John put one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and the other around his waist, and somehow shifted the kiss into something remarkably perfect, just as Sherlock had known he would. It decimated all the doubts that had been raised by their first kiss, filling Sherlock up with a giddy feeling that cut through all his logical thought processes until all that was left was _yes, yes, yes._


End file.
